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Monday, April 28, 2014

One novel, two tomes. There are always two characters, such different personalities, such different paths, different narratives, yet whose stories and steps intertwine creating one. Necessary to each other, these two join forces to greater influence their own expectations and prospects.

One novel, two lovers, one destiny. Two merging into one. Or two sisters supporting each other, nurturing the other's passion, not one but two happy endings. Two stories, two tomes gently interwoven into one tale. Romeo and Juliet. Elizabeth and Jane or
Elinor and Marianne. Hansel and Gretel. Rose Red and Snow White. Cherry and Merry or Martin and Mark or even Tom and John all in two tomes, one favorite novel.

Peanut butter and jelly. Macaroni and cheese. Bacon and eggs. Coffee and donuts. Milk and cookies. Spaghetti and meatballs. Tomato soup and grilled cheese. Two just make the perfect one.

First

Two friends, one blog.
Two visions melting into one. Plated Stories.

One-year anniversary. Paper.

To think that Plated Stories was created just one year ago. A very short year ago yet how fast one year rushes by. One year of posts, one a week; one year of themes, one a week. What does it inspire, one single word? Images, emotions, memories? She goes her way, I go mine, two reactions, two outlooks, two landscapes, and one week later the two single visions are merged, fused, blended into one.

One theme. One story. One composition. A collage of words and images, text and photos and one single recipe. Our one desire is to stimulate our creativity, enliven and divert our week of work and family, shake up the image of a food blog. Our single goal is to transmit a feeling or nudge a memory. Influence our readers' own imaginations.

Sitting in the airport after one weekend in San Francisco one year ago, we put our two heads together and came up with one concept, a joint project, one simple objective. And Plated Stories was born.

One year later and we are still here.

Dining alone, dinner for one.

Alone. Al-one. A night or two alone, eating on one's own, does one a world of good. The quiet. The calm. A single bowl of cereal and a piece of fruit. Pasta for one. Stop at the Indian or Vietnamese take out and order… one of each. For one. Carry it home, no juggling with the microwave to ensure that everyone's food is hot all at once. Nope. All alone, one dish at a time. And a single plate, fork, knife and spoon to wash. And one can watch any movie, any bad television show one wants to watch, no argument, no compromise. Or one can enjoy the luxury of switching channels as often as one likes. Fork in one hand, remote in the other, surfing.
One bed. One person. An extravagance.

Until missing the other one. The husband.

One in a Million

The one. The hot rush of love at first sight. Does love at first sight even exist? Is it even possible? Debatable. But there is one thing I do know. That the second I laid eyes on him I knew that he was the one.

Je t'aime un peu, beaucoup, passionnement, à la folie.

He loves me, he loves me not.

One in a million.

Noodle N° 1

We slip through the lobby of that grand palace hotel and out into the winter white of this city of lovers. One weekend in Paris. The cold has chased away the crowds leaving the streets silent and all our own. We have each chosen one special museum to share with the other, then spend the rest of the day wending our way through this city we know so well, seeing the monuments and shops as if for the first time, Paris in her new winter attire. Excited yet chilled to the bone, we push our way into our favorite little Asian Soup place for lunch, pulling off gloves, hats and scarves in the oh-so welcome steamy heat that washes over us as we step inside. We slide into the last empty table, elbow to elbow with our neighbors, and shout out our order above the noise and bustle of the crowd. It's as if all of Paris has magically materialized and joined us for lunch. One huge steaming bowl of noodle soup is set before each one of us and we are revitalized, the heat once again coursing through our bodies before we plunge back out onto the street and into the frosty afternoon, the rawness biting into our cheeks and nipping at our noses. Hugging each other in an attempt to keep out the cold, we continue on our way, strolling as only lovers in Paris do, the misty whiteness wrapped around us like an ermine stole. We take in the elegant wrought ironwork of the balconies, the heavy stone sculptures scattered throughout the city, the gaudy holiday shop window displays, the monuments, the Eiffel Tower, the Obelisk, disappearing up into the whiteness of the heavens and fall in love with Paris all over again.

When I eat alone I rarely cook something from scratch, I use leftovers. Those small leftovers that have a tendency to remain in the fridge because they are too small to feed a whole family but too much to actually throw on the compost or give to the dog. That kind of leftovers are my delight!

Monday, April 21, 2014

Four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie.
Can she bake a cherry pie?
Simple Simon met a pieman.

Cherry pies and apple pies, as American as…. A Fourth of July picnic. Shoo Fly Pie from deep in the heart of Pennsylvania, bitter and intriguing, quickly addictive. Thick slabs of coconut cream, chocolate cream, banana cream, lemon meringue, redolent of diners, formica counters, swivel stools and grilled cheese sandwiches, thick, heaving swirls of a creamy concoction mounded sky high, served chilled with two forks, one for me, one for mom.

But the tart. The tart. Not quite a pie. No, I wouldn't call it a pie. Une tarte, lines of them in perfect rows in so many pastry shop windows across France. Une tarte, elegance itself. No chunky wedges of apple, oh-so rustic, rather delicate, paper-thin slices carefully applied to a delicate, paper-thin puff pastry circle, round and round they go. A rosace of apple slices. Quarters of fresh figs, blood red, garnet and deep violet, or segments of deep coral-painted apricots dancing across a rectangle of dough, baked to tenderness and glistening under a glaze of confiture. Strawberries, whole strawberries perched atop lush, velvety pastry cream heady with vanilla or nestled into swirls of whipped cream.

A tart is the graceful sister of the pie, the French cousin dressed in finery.

Sour grapes, rhubarb compote, lemon curd.

Pucker up!

Bright and tangy. Snappy and acerbic. A quick comeback, angry words, a sharp wit, too much red wine vinegar on the salad.

Heavy handed.

Tart words make no friends; a spoonful of honey will catch more flies than a gallon of vinegar. – Benjamin Franklin

They straggled in, a line of them, sandwiched between two cops, looking like naughty children who have been caught at it again and sent to the corner, punished, without dessert. Sour.

They were led into the station by the side door, a walk of shame through the gaping hall where we waited to have my residency request reviewed along with a mob of others. They slouched in, bedraggled and forlorn, eyes averted from the curious, gawking crowd. A weighty silence oozing discomfort. Unwashed and unkempt, clothes askew, makeup smeared, I couldn't help but feel sorry for them. Shrouded in misery and mistrust, this was obviously not the first time they had been rounded up and brought in. Bitter.

Our first taste of Italy, none too sweet.

A mere quarter hour later, if that, the side doors once again swept open. Another string of women assembled and marshaled into the station. Tall and elegant, still beautifully made up, perfectly coiffed even after what could only have been a very long night, gorgeous dresses in deep colors and flashy lamés, low cut and hiked short to reveal dizzyingly long legs, so unlike the first group. They sashayed in, shoulders back, heads held high when not tilted coyly to one side. Their eyes scanned the crowd, urging contact, smoldering looks, captivating smiles, come hither glances, flirting with the room. Steamy and dangerous. Salty.

The first group female. The second group male. What a difference a night makes.

Tart.

The only tart I knew as a kid was the famous – infamous – Pop Tart. Cherry was my predilection, only outdone by a chocolate frosted fudge-filled Pop Tart, when the mood hit. Saturday mornings in front of cartoons, a tall glass of cold milk and a plate of Pop Tarts.

Then I grew up and met tarts both savory and sweet. The quiche! The perfect crust, tender and buttery, cupping its warmth around an egg-rich filling laden with broccoli, leeks, salty bits of bacon, dense with Gruyere or nippy chunks of feta. Roasted cherry tomatoes, so sweet. Mushrooms and tenderly sweet caramelized onions in autumn, chicken and smoky red peppers in winter, asparagus and artichokes in spring, rocket and goat cheese all summer long. Real men do eat quiche.

Lemon tart, tangy and tart, sweet and zingy quickly became our family's favorite. Lemon tart, so very French. Worlds away from the old Pop Tart.

Pies, tarts, tortes.

Months and months, years of standing in a professional cooking school, hours upon hours each week taking my place next to the pastry chef in front of the marble-topped work counters, ovens humming, industrial mixers whisking, the buzz of voices. I may have been there to translate French to English, English to French, but I picked up tips and method, information and gestures. How to roll out pastry dough into the perfect round, how to line a tart tin, lift, press, trim, poke, how to portion, cut and lay slices and wedges and chunks of fruit. How to concoct the perfect cream.

Tart it up!

At home, I thought that I would try my hand at an emblematic French tart, a cream and frangipane filling. My favorite springform pan lined and filled and pushed into the oven. An impatient wait. Excitement mounting. Husband as eager as I to see, to taste. Timer dings and I carefully lift the tart from the oven in mitted hands but what happened to my beautiful tart? No pale, creamy filling the color of down, rather a green-tinged phosphorous hue as if aglow with alien luminosity. A sniff of aluminum rather than the gentle fragrance of almonds. Yes, I had read somewhere that cream tarts should not be baked in aluminum, advice that I stoutly ignored, now much to my chagrin.

Lemon desserts are truly a favorite in my home and I am constantly searching for and developing new recipes. Curds – lemon, lime, orange or grapefruit - are simple and fast to make and can be the basis of any number of great recipes: cakes, cookies, pies and tarts, tiramisu, puddings and verrines. Tart, tangy, sweet, bright and fresh, this tart is simply lemon curd whisked into whipped cream and mounded into a pre-baked tart shell to which I have added ground almonds, the nuts a perfect pairing with lemon, the cream taming the tartness of the curd. Topped with summer's ripest berries makes it extra special.

Whisk the eggs, sugar and lemon juice together in a medium saucepan (you do not want to use a wide, shallow or large saucepan) until smooth and well blended. Place the saucepan over very low heat and, whisking constantly, heat very gently and cook until it thickens, 8 to 10 minutes. This can be done in a bain marie... but if cooking in a pot directly on the flame, watch carefully and if it begins to bubble too much pull it off the heat and continue to whisk... putting it back on the heat at intervals.

Remove from the heat and whisk in the butter one or two cubes at a time until melted and blended in. Whisk in the zest. Scrape into a heatproof bowl, cover with plastic wrap and refrigerate at least overnight until chilled and firmed (very thick). Makes about 1 1/3 cups.

Beat the cream until peaks hold. Beat the lemon curd into the whipped cream about half a cup at a time. The resulting lemon cream should be thick and fluffy. Mound into the baked pie shell, lightly spread evenly. Refrigerate for minimum an hour before serving. Serve decorated with raspberries, strawberries or as you like.

Monday, April 14, 2014

Meeting his family for the first time was more than nerve-wracking. I was being introduced to a family by their only son, introduced as his future wife. And I would be spending an afternoon, the time of a long meal, immersed in French conversation, a language I barely mastered, if at all.

His meeting my family for the first time must have been just as trying. We had married after a whirlwind courtship, if one could even possibly call it a courtship, married and had a baby. He would meet my mother and brothers for the first time around a cradle.

My future mother-in-law had made lunch. Although that meal was close to thirty years ago, I can certainly guess that she made meat of some kind. Meat made a star-studded appearance at every single lunch in her home, beef, veal or chicken if not liver or rabbit, often preceded by a slice of meaty pâté. A hardy, filling, hot lunch every single day. A garlic-studded roast beef sizzling with margarine, a chicken, fragrant and deeply golden, the skin crisp, the meat tender. Or stewed, a veal blanquette, pale pink meat and bright orange carrot wedges in a thick white sauce.

Meet we did. He my family, me his. How many meals have we all shared since?

Meat and two veg.

Meatloaf, dense and heavy, ground meat packed into the shape of a loaf cake yet much less tempting, much less savory. Certainly not tempting. No, my mother's meatloaf was anything but.

Meatloaf, the symbol of my mother's lack of culinary skills and interest, the emblem of a culinary era in which I grew up, raised on substantial, meat-heavy meals. A slice of meatloaf – at school we would fondly refer to something eerily similar as "mystery meat" – would lie on the plate between the helping of mashed potatoes and the scoop of green beans, canned, naturally – lie on the plate rather grey, dry and forlorn, just begging for ketchup. Flecks of green pepper and onion would taunt me with their ineffectiveness, laugh at me for being obliged to eat meat in this form, this fashion, this uninteresting, unappetizing, unseasoned semblance.

Ground burger was the meat of choice in the Sixties and Seventies. Packed into patties to be served on a bun, slathered with plenty of condiment or stuffed with a slice of yellow cheese and spaghetti sauce before being placed in the pan, a Surprise Burger; tossed with the ingredients of a packet and a can, heated and simmered in a skillet and served over squiggly little pasta shapes; stuffed into taco shells dripping with spicy salsa; Swedish meatballs, sweet and sour. Better was Saturday night when dad would take meat in its more genteel, refined rather urbane form of T-bone steak, one for each of his hungry family, chucked onto the grill until charred.

One of my husband's rare trips to the States, down to Florida and a meal at my brother's. My sister-in-law, an excellent cook, places a platter in the center of the table, tickled pink, a platter groaning under the weight and heft of a meatloaf, a platter nestled in between the bowl of mashed potatoes and the dish of green beans. "Just like your mother always made!" she exclaims, beaming with generosity. My husband balks. American cuisine.

One man's meat is another man's poison.

Meat Market

Rabbits still dressed in their fluffy pelts, whole pigs' heads as naked as the day they were born nestled in between the chops and the sausages, cubes of meat, veal, beef, chicken, glistening in some choice marinade or sauce, threaded on sticks just waiting for a grill in someone's garden, trussed chickens in pale pink, Easter yellow or deep hued the color of wood pressed together in rows, clawed feet, beaked and crested head tucked prettily under wings, a French butcher's case is like no other.

Years working in a professional cooking school, I loved walking through the courtyard and peeping into the special sections' classrooms, the bakery with its roaring ovens and trays with rows of baguettes or pastry with its rows of concentrated students in white steadily piping out choux or rosettes. But the butchery students never ceased to amaze me. Young men (mostly) and young women (few) decked out in identical blue aprons with one strap up and over one shoulder only, the better to protect the whites when hefting a carcass across a shop or market. Young men and women, knives in hand, leaning over slabs of meat, muscle, bone and flesh, and with a mix of brawn and finesse, force and delicacy, they learned to slice and carve, cleave and plume. An elegant dance immersed in centuries of tradition.

“Don’t take a butcher’s advice on how to cook meat. If he knew, he’d be a chef.” - Andy Rooney

White meat, dark meat.

Once long ago when my babies were but tots, another mother of small children made the statement to a roomful of like souls “I’ll bet that we all give our children the white meat pieces of chicken because there are no bones.” As if the offering of the white meat to our darling and fragile children was a prodigious sacrifice of the motherly kind. As if white meat was better than dark, more flavorful and succulent, and thus the most desired, that self-denial a sign of motherly worth bordering on the saintly simply out of concern for our offspring. And all of the other mothers smiled angelically and nodded their haloed heads in unison. I chuckled and, smiling serenely, shook my head. “No,” I admitted boldly, no sign of shame on my face, no waver of apology in my words, “I give my children the white meat because I prefer the dark myself.”

My own halo has long been tarnished and worn slightly askew. When I can get away with using only dark meat in a recipe, I do. A baking dish of lemon chicken for a wedding; hot and spicy breaded thighs for company; curries and tagines for a weeknight family meal. Only when the boys were old enough to voice an opinion, articulate a disagreement, did I throw in meat of the white persuasion. Four thighs, two breasts, please, all in the name of pleasing my men.

“Gourmets! Serve the bird roasted, with pink feet, a strip of bacon to cover its modesty, the breast sprinkled with lemon drops.” - Charles Monselet

This is such a great way of making meatballs in tomato sauce, a true no-fuss dish because all you have to do is roll the meat into small balls and then drop them straight into the tomato sauce without frying, then just leaving them to simmer for about an hour all on their own. Apart from the occasional stirring now and then. This recipe is how I prepare meatballs, but see it as an outline on a canvas and fill in the empty spaces with your own signature, add herbs and/or spices that you like to the meat or anything that you think would be good. I do it this way, you do it your way! The recipe is for 8 servings, but I recommend preparing the whole amount given in the recipe even if you are not serving 8 - make enough for leftovers - because they are even better the day after!

Chop the onion finely and cook in some olive oil in a large pan for a few minutes. Add the tomato sauce, add some salt and check if the sauce is too acid, if so add half a teaspoon (or more if needed) sugar. Bring it to a simmer.

Meanwhile mix the minced meat with eggs, parmesan, salt and black pepper. Taste to see of more salt is needed. Start rolling the meat into small balls that you drop into the tomato sauce as you go along. Once finished, bring to a simmer and leave it simmering for about an hour with a half closed lid on top. Stir now and then.

Monday, April 7, 2014

À table, les enfants! Come to lunch! Come to supper! To the table, little children! They scurry to the table, skinny legs, chubby legs, scraped knees, dirty toes, tumbling over each other, elbowing their way to the chair next to grandpère, the best spot!

À table, les enfants! Such a common phrase in France for such a commonplace activity. A jumble of toddlers jostling their way to the table, tummies growling, carefully place a tattered cloth napkin on a row of laps, as grandpère instructs. Squiggling, wriggling children torn between wanting lunch and anxious to get back to their play. But grandmère made frites!

À table, les enfants! The song of so many mothers and fathers, grandparents and older siblings, head out the door or at the bottom of a staircase, hands on hips or hands rubbing clean on an old kitchen towel. Knives and forks clattering as games wait, quiet and abandoned for the length of a meal.

We were poor as church mice when we married. An old mattress and a worktable were our sole possessions, but it was all we really needed. But by the time we moved into our first real home, we were two going on three and needed more. We ransacked my in-laws' attic among the dust, among the memories, and claimed an ancient armoire whose creaking doors and cracking wood would follow us around for the next twenty-five years. We added a matching nightstand – the second long gone – and the bedframe, each carved with the same Art Deco flowers hovering around the edges. A small round of pale gray marble dappled and streaked with deep pewter, a cutting surface once used in their shop to cut cheese, made it into our car towards home. And a table. Heavy wooden oak the color of bittersweet chocolate on turned and carved legs, six of them supporting the table's heft. Six, or is it eight, leaves, each so heavy it requires one person, two hands and arms wrapped around it to lift and carry it, left stacked up in a corner or in the basement or garage, wherever we moved to, only pulled out when company arrives, set in and slotted home. An old oak table that seats four when leafless, the three remaining sections pushed heavily together, the outer edges of the oval dropped down, unrequired.

Near on thirty years later, that table is still with us, taking pride of place in the center of our dining area. Throughout the years, this old table, now scratched and marked with time and usage and love, has seen countless family meals and holiday celebrations. It has spent years in service as a sewing table and later used as a photographer's support for a light box. Now back to part time desk, part time dining table.

I have always been loath to part with a table with such a personality, no matter how badly my husband would love to. Warm and familiar like a favorite grandparent, teasingly annoying like a naughty, mischievous child the way it sometimes knocks against one's knee, leaving a bruise, all in good fun. Worn and scarred with time, each knick, mark and stain a memory burnished into the surface.

Trips back home to Florida always mean evenings at my brother's. A hot meal or something tossed onto the grill, sitting around the dining room table with the best China and crystal glasses; family meals special occasions. Coffee is served in the paper-thin porcelain cups and saucers, inky images of Chinamen against pearl white, once the table is cleared of dishes and cutlery. Coffee done, the table is cleared once again, cloth removed and the table becomes a surface for frolic and amusement as the board games are pulled out of closets and placed on the wood.

My brother can drink us under the table and usually does at one of these game nights. While we sip wine or iced tea, he fills glass after glass of whiskey from the babble of bottles clinking and clanking on the drinks cart. One too many and his joy becomes merriment, boasting and laughing louder and longer than the others around the table. But then who am I to talk? Two glasses of wine and I'm under the table.

My mother-in-law's home was crowded with oversized furniture, too many chairs, a jumble of tables, a mishmash of the old and the new, none of it handsome. The dining room table, long enough for a gaggle of grandkids and the generation in between, a grandparent at each end, was covered with a utilitarian oilcloth, flowers in shades of brown, orange and yellow, which she would cover with a white tablecloth for Sunday or holiday lunch once the stains, halos of coffee and crumbs of morning breakfast were wiped away. Piles of newspapers and old magazines would be pushed out of the way once naptime was over – small children and grandfather alike – and the table would become game central. She and my father-in-law taught them card games and board games with the patience of saints, racking up hours upon hours, year after year, of rummy and scrabble, boggle and belotte, treating the boys as intellectual equals, much to their delight. Children, knees on chairs, bodies leaning heavily forward over the game mat, excited chatter and laughter as cards were slapped down, tiles carefully placed or pieces moved from space to space.

Evening, the crêpe grill at grandpère's end of the table, batter ladled, crêpes flipped then passed around the table.

My mother-in-law's tiny kitchen floor was taken over by a round table, equally covered with oilcloth, flowers in shades of brown, orange and yellow, a cloth scraped and rubbed white with time and elbow grease. That table saw so many meals made, vegetables chopped, pastry pressed out, sticks of potatoes wrapped in a clean towel waiting to be fried. One single chair, all that there was room for in that narrow kitchen, meant one person standing for breakfast coffee as the other one sat. A mess of coffee cups, broken biscuits, smears of jelly across that table, rickety and unstable, cleared away, oilcloth rubbed and lunch preparation begun.

Gathering family and friends around the table for a meal is a daily joy, and nothing is more comforting and familiar than a plate of fresh pasta. This is a very simple dough to make and although we have chosen to add fresh herbs, the flavor variations are many. Making pasta is a fun project to prepare with the children around the kitchen table. A drizzle of good quality olive oil, a dusting of freshly grated Parmesan cheese and you suddenly have the best meal ever.

ILVA & JAMIE'S FRESH HERB PASTA

1 lb (500 g) flour, preferably durum

3 tbsp (or more if you want) finely and I mean very finely chopped fresh herbs like thyme, sage and rosemary

¼ tsp salt

5 large eggs, preferable at room temperature

1 – 5 tsps water, as needed

Blend the flour, salt and very finely chopped herbs together in a large mixing bowl; make a well in the center and break the eggs into the well. Using fingers or a fork, whisk the eggs into the herbed flour until well blended, homogeneous and a dough forms. Add water a teaspoon at a time as needed to moisten pockets of flour. Knead the dough on a floured surface for about 5 minutes until smooth and elastic. Wrap the dough in plastic and allow to rest for 1 to 2 hours at room temperature.

Divide the dough into 4 or 5 balls. Working one ball of dough at a time, flatten the ball with your hand or a rolling pin. The dough must be rolled out paper thin, either by hand (with a rolling pin on a floured surface) on a large, long table or a pasta machine (follow the directions, beginning the process on the widest/thickest setting and working the strip of dough through every setting until it goes through the thinnest, dusting the dough with flour as needed.)

Lightly roll or fold the paper-thin dough and cut into strips, as wide or as narrow as desired. Unroll to cook in lightly salted boiling water until al dente, 1 – 3 minutes.